Enough
by Rynn Abhorsen
Summary: In the Aftermath, Angela relies on blind faith, and Constantine on nothing at all. Or at least, that's what he wants us to believe. JohnAngela,ONESHOT


**A/N:** Ah, Constantine fanfiction. Such a wonderful movie, with the manbitch of my dreams, Keanu Reeves. It is my hope that you enjoy this story, as I enjoy it.

* * *

- 

Enough

By Rynn Abhorsen

-

It was raining, again.

The man stood out in the drizzling grayness and, if his soaked collar and hair were any indication, had been standing there for quite some time. The people walking past saw his jaw twitch, probably trying to squeeze a bit more flavor out of his nicotine gum. It seemed a losing battle as he spat the white blob onto the pavement and straightened his ever-rumpled shirt. Muttering under his breath bitterly, "City of Angels, my ass," he began his rambling path down the street.

Another day for John Constantine.

His destination was not clear; he drifted from one side of the street to the other without consequence, sometimes running one hand through the sodden mass of hair atop his head. Shoving his hands deep within the pockets of his trench coat, he continued across the streets, stepping in puddles as if he did not notice.

Puddles had lost their importance after he had stopped the destruction of the world.

Gnawing on his lower lip slightly as if in nervousness or irritation, he stopped in front of an apartment building, the dark brick building looming over him, cloistering him in shadow. Pausing to stare at the ornamental gargoyles on the wall, he gave a small, bitter laugh.

Stupid imitations, the lot of them.

He pressed a button on the panel, giving an almost plaintive stare at the bitter static that answered. One, two, three…

"Fuck."

"What?" An answering voice, female and rather shocked.

He was unapologetic.

"It's Constantine."

"Oh."

One click and an answering one before the door swung open, and the last thing seen was the smallest flash of a black trench coat. Her door was open and unlocked, heralding his arrival, so he let himself in. There was a soft click as he closed the wooden pane behind him; he winced slightly as if he had hoped to remain unseen and unheard.

Her cat, however, had other ideas.

It twined itself between his legs, endeavoring to make John trip or stumble, perhaps in an effort to improve his feline dignity. Stooping, Constantine picked the kitty up, cradling the creature in the crook of one arm and scratching underneath the cat's chin with the other. While the animal gave a satisfied purr he called out, "Angela?"

"In the kitchen, John."

She was indeed, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up to the elbows and the lower portion of her arms lost in the soapy water in the sink. Looking up, her brown curls clinging to the nape of her neck, she gave a soft smile at the cat in John's arms. Retracting her arms from the basin, she flicked them in the pair's direction, spattering both aforementioned cat and Constantine in water droplets. Giving a yowl of protest, the kitty escaped over John's left shoulder and down the hall.

Satisfied, she slipped her hands back under the warm water's surface and pulled a dish from the sink. Seeing Constantine's look of indignation, she said, "What, I can't use the Universal Conduit for washing dishes?"

"No, I'm just wondering why getting me all wet was worth the torture of your cat."

She gave a quick glance in his direction, her eyes lingering over the wet collar and tie. "You were already all wet, and besides, water from my sink is probably much cleaner than rain water, considering all the things flying about in the sky."

Pondering her referral to the winged demons, John raked a hand through his hair, slightly uncomfortable. "You seem to have…adjusted well to your new position."

The only answer to his statement was the gurgle of the sink as all the water was sucked down the drain. As Angela dried her hands, she rolled her sleeves down and placed her dishes in the cabinet. Answering John, it seemed, was not her first priority. Turning back to him, she replied, "It isn't like I had much of a choice."

"I heard that you've been doing exorcisms."

She approached him, stopping a few feet before coming into contact. "Does it bother you?"

"You haven't had any proper training, any teaching on how to protect yourself or-"

"I've been reading up on it. Besides, John, I can't see you giving me step by step instructions on the finer points of removing a demon from someone's body."

Her words were sharp, hitting home. But Constantine was not to be swayed, replying, "Have you been using holy water, the cross, the amulet?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. John, I'm doing alright."

He took three steps, closing the gap between them, pinning her against a counter. She looked up at him, her dark eyebrows plunging into a frown.

"Angela." His voice was searing, scorching and filling the small room. It was the fact that he had spoken her name, and done so with such conviction, such bitterness, that had been the power behind the word. "You have to use them, you need them."

"No, John." Her lighter eyes bored into his darker ones, challenging him to restate the need for the objects, to ask her to use them, to beg. When had she gotten so self-assured? She brought her hands to his face, the slender pads of her fingers slightly wrinkled still from being within the water. Placing one hand on each of his cheeks, she looked over his visage, a fierce, burning compassion written all over her drawn features. "The cross, the water, they are just _things_, John. It isn't objects that give me power, it's _me_. It's my faith that forces out the evil, not what I wear or what I hold. I know you understand, John. You gave me the spear because you trusted me, and it's that trust that allows me to succeed."

"Angela…" he breathed, unwilling or unable to admit his belief, to be anything other than the stoic and untouchable Constantine. He needed those objects and he was the best, so she had to need them as well. Unless she had surpassed him, a thought he would not entertain.

"Say you trust me, John, _please_."

Had he trusted her? Had he? The need for him to agree, to reaffirm, it was all over her. It was in the trembling of her hands and the quivering of her lower lip. It was in him too, in the heaving sigh he gave and the answering fall, his knees finally unable to support all of it. He met the cold, unforgiving tile of her kitchen floor, pressing his forehead against her stomach, needing the cool touch of her skin and the silk of her blouse. He needed things, he needed her. He needed Angela. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, sweeping him over and causing his arms to encircle her waist, to hold onto the one solid thing in the world since Gabriel and Lucifer.

"Angela…"

She wrapped her arms around him, the darkness of the curtain that was her limbs maybe, for a second, shielding John Constantine from all in the world that overwhelmed him. He spent so much time in between, caught with so much knowledge of hell and heaven that the earth, in all its horrors and its dreams, seemed false and ephemeral.

"I trust you." His voice, muffled by her arms and the blood pounding in her ears, still struck true. A thud and she, too, joined him on the floor. Once there, it was all they could do but to hold on to each other, she trying with all she could to use that faith of hers to heal some of what haunted John, and he, with his face buried in the hollow of her throat, just trying to believe with every fiber of his being that this, this scene in a kitchen of an apartment in Los Angeles, that this was enough.

His voice was raw, "Your cat probably thinks we're crazy."

Gripping the sleeves of his shirt, she looked him in the eyes, "My cat isn't one to talk."

-

-

* * *

**A/N: **It is my hope that John isn't out of character, as he is a complex persona and hard to carry onto paper. If you enjoyed it, please tell me through a review.   



End file.
